


rose nettles & foxglove

by brawlite



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (only sort of not human), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Familiar Clint Barton, Human Disaster Clint Barton, M/M, Magic, Mutual Pining, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, Witch Phil Coulson, phil has concerns about power dynamics/imbalances, phil has too much respect to treat clint like a pet, phil is a witch and clint is his cat familiar, watch these two idiots be human disasters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 16:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10620300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: It's really a pity that Phil Coulson, handsome bachelor witch, has so much respect, because his cat familiar, one Clint Barton, would really like to climb him like a tree. Butno, Coulson is way too respectful to even pet Clint. Fine. Clint'll just have to take matters into his own hands -- or paws.





	

**Author's Note:**

> linebreaks for pov shift  
> hyphens for scene breaks

The plants need water.

It’s the first thought that passes through Phil’s mind in the early morning and, sure enough, it’s echoed by the faint and unignorable wind-chime-like sound that drifts through the hallways of his house that resonates an easy ‘ _thirsty’_ through his head. Right -- Phil hadn’t had time to water them yesterday after he’d come home, and some of them are needy little buggers that require water at least once a day or they start getting loud. Or grumpy. And after last week’s fiasco of one of them _spore-ing_ at him in anger over something he can’t even remember and making him sneeze for _days_ , he’d really like to avoid that, thanks.

But he could use a couple more minutes to wake up, at least.

Phil moves to roll over in his bed and claim a little time to himself, only to stop when something rough and half-cold presses rather firmly against the tip of his nose, halting his progress. He opens his eyes, only to be met with cool grey eyes with a sliver of pupil: a cat’s face mere inches from his own, its paw pressed directly to his nose. The cat meows. It lifts its paw, and then lowers it again, this time to Phil’s lips. The action is careful and purposeful -- no claws in sight, but it still has Phil waking up for good and offering a sigh in response.

He knows a paw to his lips means ‘ _I’m hungry’_ just like he knows the wind-chimes he hears drifting between moments means the same. “ _Fine._ I’m up.” He doesn’t move the cat, that would be _rude_ , so Phil waits for the cat to move before sitting up in the bed himself and stretching. “You’re in good company. They’re hungry too.”

The cat gives no indication that it hears him, other than to offer him a head-butt to his torso when Phil runs his hands through his own thinning hair. The cat bumps him again, meows like its whining, and then Phil relents. “Okay, okay. But you’ll have to wait for breakfast until I water the plants. They’ll only get louder.” And with that, he’s out of bed and on his way to the bathroom for his morning routine.

By the time he walks out of his bathroom, dressed for the day, the tawny colored tabby is already weaving, doing figure-eights between his legs, nimble on its feet and considerate enough to not trip Phil. Today, anyway.

“Clint.” He warns, making his way into the hallway. There is no threat, no actual reason that the cat should stop being underfoot, other than it’s both annoying and endearing in equal measures, especially when Phil is trying to accomplish a task. Phil knows that Clint could go make himself breakfast -- could either catch something from the nearby forest and or make himself pancakes if he so chose, but Phil also knows that he won’t. Clint is by no measures a morning person (or being, or cat), and Phil is too fond of him to deny him his favorite morning routine of getting in Phil’s way. Phil’s gotten good at working around him.

Once, when they were first starting out, first trying to fit into each other’s spaces, Phil had tried to feed him cat food. Once, and only once. Afterward, Clint made his feelings clear by turning one of Phil’s favorite leather chairs into a scratching post. Now, Clint gets a balanced breakfast of whatever undoctored meat Phil has lying around. It’s usually chicken or beef, but occasionally Clint will get lucky and Phil will have lamb or pheasant on hand. Today, it’ll be a mix of lamb and chicken, but it’ll have to wait until the plants have their water. Regardless, Phil puts the coffee together as his watering-can fills at the sink, knowing Clint will want some of that too when he so chooses to have it.

The plants have gotten louder, of course. Not quite loud enough to give him a headache, but getting there.

He sighs, casting a glance at the ferns that live in the bay window in his kitchen. Typically, one of the more ornery ones starts it all, setting off a chain-reaction amongst all of them throughout his house. Today, it’s one of the grumpiest ones, full of thorns and waving, reaching vines. Phil can tell that this plant is the culprit because it has already pulled down a couple of Phil’s protective seals and wards from a nearby wall. The vines are exploring, causing childish destruction within a five-foot radius. Coincidentally, it’s also one of Clint’s favorite plants. Around noon, when the kitchen gets the best light, Phil will often catch Clint napping in its pot, curled up around the thorny vines.

“Patience is a virtue _none_ of you know,” he mutters as he carefully waters the plants in the kitchen, feeling petulant and annoyed enough to save the troublemaker for last. The lesson will by no means be learned, but it makes him feel better, anyway.

He makes his rounds around the house, taking the time and care to water each and every plant that needs it, skipping the ones that would complain about _too much_ water. By the time he’s done, they’ve all stopped fussing. Phil is not quite left with silence in the wake of the chiming hungry noise that echoed through his head, but instead a general and quiet thrum of contentment.

Clint, who’s gotten louder by volumes, has only stopped being underfoot in favor of sitting in the kitchen doorway. He’s also gotten louder, of course. And Phil, the sucker that he is, eventually sets down a little dish of cubed chicken and lamb pieces on the table before he sets about making his own breakfast. If Clint were a normal cat, a pet, there would be no way Phil would serve Clint before he would himself -- but there is no world in which Clint is normal, so he gets to eat first. After all, guests are always served first.

He fixes himself an omelette, casually sipping at his coffee which is unapologetically doctored with cream and sugar. He used to drink it black, but living with Clint had him too-often picking up the wrong cup in distraction and soon he found himself used to the taste. It’s really not so bad. While the eggs slowly firm, he does the dishes. A quick glance to the table tells him not only that Clint’s bowl is empty and free to be washed, but also that Clint is nowhere in sight. It’s no surprise.

Clint is a familiar -- a drifter by nature. He comes and goes as he pleases, and Phil’s gotten used to that. Typically, Phil prefers stability, but he easily tolerates the kind of inconsistency that comes along with Clint. But maybe that’s because he’s altogether too fond of Clint to begin with.

Clint reemerges while Phil is eating his breakfast over the morning paper. Wordlessly, Clint pads over to the coffee machine on bare, human feet. It’s hard _not_ to notice that his blond hair is steadily dripping down his bare chest, body still flushed from a shower he’s clearly just taken. At least today he had the common decency to put on boxers. They’re purple and garish, but Phil isn’t about to voice a complaint. Clint knows that Phil would prefer he remain somewhat clothed while he’s human -- mostly because Phil has said as much -- but Phil also knows that Clint is stubborn. If he wants to be naked, he _will_ be naked. Phil has accepted that. He’s come to terms with it. That doesn’t mean it’s not frustrating as all hell, a constant battle of self-restraint.

“Coffee.” Clint mutters, sliding into the chair across from Phil, hands cradled carefully around a freshly-poured, still-steaming, cup of coffee. It’s hard to imagine this man as anything other than adorably sleep-ruffled and innocent, but Phil knows that Clint is a powerhouse of innate magical potential, even if he does require more caffeine than normal in the morning.

Clint is kind of a wreck without his morning coffee. Well -- he’s kind of a wreck regardless, but without the caffeine he is barely functioning.

Phil hums in both acknowledgment and agreement, and turns the page of his paper.

Clint came to him on a morning not quite unlike this one. A nice day, but wholly unremarkable in terms of quantifiers. Overcast. Mild. Overwhelmingly and stiflingly _normal_. Phil had watered his plants, fed himself, and had been on his way out the door to head into the city to pick up some reagents when he’d looked down to find a cat on his porch. It had just been sitting there, still as a statue, looking up at him as if it had been waiting for him, patiently. Further inspection (a good hard _Look_ ) told Phil he was looking at something he didn’t think he’d ever see waiting for him: a Familiar.

A Familiar _on his doorstep_.

Within the magical community, the mythology and history behind Familiars is -- _disputed_ , to say the least. No one can quite agree where they come from, but it’s generally agreed upon that they were aptly named. Insomuch as that they tend to gravitate toward witches, wizards, and sorcerers -- anyone who practices enough magic for it to be in the air around them and their homes. They tend to choose one and stay with them for years or a lifetime, become _familiar_ , as the name might suggest.

A Familiar, in the absence of magic, tends to generally get _stuck_ (as Clint had so crudely put it, once) in their animal form until they can rectify their physical situation closer to a source of controlled magic. So, of course, most tend to stay by the side of someone with magical abilities simply for the ability to change forms. They also all tend to be overwhelmingly _social_ , which seems to make them more inclined to find someone to stick around.

Being chosen by a Familiar is an _honor_ and a privilege. And Phil does not let himself forget that, especially when Clint walks around his house wearing absolutely nothing, or when Phil goes to sleep next to a cat and wakes up in the morning with a warm, human body near his own. Phil has to constantly remind himself that Clint is not his cat, not his pet, not his _anything_ other than his Familiar _\--_ it would be incredibly presumptuous and rude to assign ownership to him or to treat him with anything other than respect. They have a reciprocal relationship. He provides Clint with a magical environment to live in so that he is able to use both of his forms, and in return, Clint’s presence helps strengthen and solidify Phil’s magic. He treats Clint like he is a guest in his home, even if he grumbles a little bit about it sometimes. He’s allowed to grumble, especially when Clint wakes him up in the middle of the night by bolting into his room and digging claws into Phil’s leg, yowling at absolutely nothing at all. But then there are the times that Clint brings him things, helpful potions or uncommon reagents and Phil can’t be anything other than grateful.

He _is_ grateful, yes, but sometimes it’s just not _fair_. Clint is a tremendous flirt and he’s far too easy on the eyes for his own good. He’s fit, he’s hilarious, and he has enough charm to get him anywhere he could ever want. Phil is old in comparison, his hair is thinning and his body is overwhelmingly average. He’s good at magic, at what he does, but other than that, he doesn’t have all that much going for him.

But Phil is _professional_. He respects Clint, appreciates his company, and wouldn’t dare jeopardize their arrangement. Even if he, on the rare occasion, debates it.

But, no. The inevitable destruction wouldn’t be worth it. The cat who waited for him on his porch (for five hours, he found out later), turned out to be a very lovely man who only sometimes tests Phil’s patience by just existing. They work well together as a team. They’re both stubborn, but Phil finds Clint easier to get along with than most people he’s ever encountered, which he counts as absolutely miraculous.

He _did_ get lonely, all alone in his house on the edge of the woods, before Clint came along. And now -- now, he’s _happy_. He’s content. He’s not wanting for much at all, in the grand scheme of things.

Phil does the dishes, listening to the content hum of his house. Everything is in alignment, all of its inhabitants and wards pleased with the new day, especially now that Phil is up and moving. It’s always a calming noise to listen to, the perfect background to his morning routine.

Dishes done, he can finally start on some work he’s been meaning to get around to -- little trinkets and wards for his closest friends and neighbors, for the forest, and for his house. They’re time consuming and more than a little finicky, so he’s more than a little guilty about putting them off. But now they’re calling to him, the shifting of seasons from winter to early spring providing just enough bubbling energy that everything he’d left on the backburner the last couple months is all he can think about.

Clint, now caffeinated and full of breakfast, has disappeared. A quick glance to a pair of boxers haphazardly left on the couch tells Phil all he needs to know: Clint is back to being a cat. Judging by his typical morning routine, that means that Phil has a few hours of uninterrupted time before his familiar comes back to, more than likely, demand his attention.

One of his plants, a fern, leans toward him as he sits down at his desk in his study. It unfurls a long frond in his direction, leaves brushing against the oak of his desk, against his fingertips. “Hello,” he smiles, voice soft enough to blend right in with the sound of his wooden wind chimes currently swaying gently in the open window. The top of the large bay window to his left is covered in noise-making contraptions -- tiny bells hanging from red strings, bamboo chimes, and metal pipes of various materials -- all, shifting and singing in the breeze. There are prisms and crystals hanging too, catching the mid-afternoon sunlight to throw light all across the room in little specks. This is one of his favorite rooms in the house; it gets good light,  holds sound and spells without trouble, and, most importantly, it feels _safe_. He can get lost for hours in his study, wrapped up in the comfort of the space itself, cocooned in the place where his magic is the most vibrant.

It’s one of Clint’s favorite rooms, too.  Phil doesn’t know why -- he’s never presumed enough to _ask_ , but it’s obvious from the sheer amount of time Clint also spends in it. Every afternoon it’s where Phil can find him, sprawled out on the sunny ledge of the bay window, the shadows from the chimes and bells playing patterns on his fur. The plants on the ledge like him well enough too, moving their leaves and fronds enough that he always has ample space to stretch out and sun himself. It’s warms Phil’s heart, seeing Clint so carefree and happy -- so, at least slightly, he’s concerned that if he asks, he’ll discourage Clint from so easily falling into that comfortable state. He doesn’t _want_ Clint to think twice about joining him in the study. When Clint’s there, the whole room brightens, warms -- and Phil’s magic (and the plants and the chimes and the crystals) all hum in delight at his presence.

It’s _comfortable_.

It’s very nearly perfect.

* * *

* * *

It’s _awful_.

Like, absolutely horrendous and downright _dreadful_.

Clint had been drawn to the house to begin with -- the whole place was a beacon of magic, calling out to him in the darkness, standing out from the dullness of the rest of the world. Once he’d caught the feeling, it’d become absolutely un-ignorable. He couldn’t _help_ himself.

He’d expected a typical witch. Someone boringly eccentric: kept things messy, liked to ramble on about spells, kept _toads_ \-- but no. No, Clint couldn’t have been that lucky. Instead, he’d stumbled paws over feet right into Phil Coulson.

Just plain unlucky.

Phil isn’t the problem. Well -- no. That’s not entirely the true. Phil is _entirely_ the problem. If the man wasn’t so downright _epic_ , Clint wouldn’t have a problem. But he _is_ . He’s an amazing witch. But he’s not just that -- he’s kind, intelligent, funny, a good chef, and downright adorable. He’s -- everything that Clint has ever wanted, tied together with a nice little bow. And he is completely and totally _off-limits_.

It’s mostly Clint’s problem, though. Even though Phil has made it worse by being so damn lovable.

It’s the worst.

Part of the problem is that whole thing isn’t out of the realm of possibility or anything. While Clint’s never heard of a magic-practicing practitioner having a relationship with a Familiar before, he’s also never heard of any rules _against_ that kind of arrangement. And if there’s one thing he knows, Phil is a stickler for rules. Well -- the man’s a stickler for rules, as long as they’re not terribly inconvenient to him. Clint has watched him break about ten rules in one go before, but that was a kind of inconvenient life-or-death situation involving regular non-magic folk. But -- maybe it _would_ be better if there was a rule against it. That way, even for a little while, Clint could let himself believe that Phil actually wanted him and was against it because of the rules. That would be a nice little fantasy world to live in for a while. It would let him escape the harsh reality that Phil seems to be simply uninterested in pursuing anything like _anything_ with Clint. Platonic or otherwise. He’s kind of already made that one more than obvious.

It’s not that he thinks Phil doesn’t like him. It’s more than apparent that Phil is generally fond of him. A lot of it clearly has to do with the fact that Phil very obviously likes having company around; his life must’ve been incredibly solitary before Clint showed up and got fur all over everything. Phil likes making dumb jokes and silly one-liners that are generally lost on his plants; he really benefits from someone else hovering around to chuckle every once in awhile. Clint  has watched Phil chat at a merchant for over an hour about absolutely _nothing_ , but that had happened more in the beginning, when Clint spent more of his time as a cat. Phil doesn’t do that much anymore -- instead, he saves his talking for Clint, even if Clint is walking around on four legs, not two. It makes Clint feel special, warm, wanted -- but sometimes, it’s not enough. Phil always stops at the line of professional, of friendly and cordial  -- but not _close_.

And then Clint feels _bad_ , wanting more from someone who has given him just about everything. He’s fine. He’s happy. He doesn’t need more.

He wouldn’t say no to a bit more affection, though.

When Clint’s walking around on bare feet, all ten human-toes helping him keep his balance instead of a swaying tail, he’s fine. In that form, he can cope. Kinda. His quota for affection is just about proportional to any normal human (which is to say it’s not negligible, but also not unmanageable). _But_ , when he’s a cat -- driven by the instinct to bolt across the room for literally no reason and to drink water from a dripping tap -- he _needs_ the affection. He craves it, feels like he can’t live without it. All of that would be fine and dandy, if it wasn’t for Phil’s respect.

The man has so much respect it’s practically dripping out of his ears.

Ugh. Respect is the _worst_.

Respect keeps Phil from treating Clint like a _pet_. He wouldn’t dare reach down and run a hand along Clint’s head like anyone might a regular cat, wouldn’t even _think_ about getting at that spot at the base of Clint’s tail. Phil always scoffs a little when Clint deliberately rubs his cheek over Phil’s hand or his thigh, scent-marking his territory like the creature he isn’t quite. He doesn’t _need_ to, sure, but it still feels right. And it feels _wrong_ for Phil to treat him like another human being when he’s a cat. Even if he’s doing it to be polite.

A little affection isn’t so much to ask, is it?

It’d be easier if Clint could clamp down on his instincts, but he can’t. He’s tried. Good lord, has he tried. Because honestly, it’s not just the near-endless quota of affection needed that he has to deal with. That, in and of itself, would be a burden, but he could cope. But god, it’s not it. Not by a long shot. There are other things, more _embarrassing_ things, that he just can’t get a hold on.

He brought Phil a dead bird, once.

It was a Hooded Warbler. Its song had been bright and airy -- catching Clint’s ear from a good distance away, the sound breezing through the forest behind Phil’s house with ease. It had been beautiful, a magnificent specimen of a songbird-- bright yellow plumage around its eyes, jet black feathers covering its head. It was entirely innocent, a victim of Clint’s uncontrolled instincts. It had taken its last breaths in Phil’s warm palms, deposited there straight from Clint’s mouth, bright blood contrasting with those vibrantly colored feathers. He can still taste it now, sharp and metallic on his tongue. Phil had hummed softly, spoken quiet words, and led it peacefully into the afterlife, looking devastated and a little lost in those moments afterward.

That look of disappointment and sadness was _really_ not what Clint was going for.

Not that he had been _going for_ anything. He had just slipped up, let down his guard for a few seconds, and given into a more primal part of him. Instinct told him to bring Phil things because he _likes_ Phil, so he had done exactly that. And he’s learned from his mistakes. Oh boy, has he learned.

It’s not like Clint _wants_ to be a trainwreck. It’s just that he kind of is. He didn’t ask to fall head over heels for his witch -- it just kind of happened.

He’s tried scrambling at the walls of his own emotions, trying to dig himself out of this pit, but he can’t. It’s an impossible task. Clint simply has to live with himself and his own messed up emotions. The best he can do is try and make sure Phil doesn’t get caught in the crossfire.  

Unfortunately, Clint can’t necessarily ignore the instinct of bringing tokens to Phil completely, but he _can_ divert it. Instead of bringing Phil small dead animals, Clint brings him small _useful_ things. Like plants, tree-nuts, and other various reagents that Phil could make use of. Sometimes, Clint gets real lucky and finds something that Phil has been looking for for ages. And a couple of times, Clint has brought back things Phil has never seen before. Those times are always the best, when Phil cannot contain his look of pure joy and admiration. It’s wordless praise and Clint always eats it right up, fuel for a fire he cannot quench.

It’s easy, actually, finding something magical in the forest. First off, because Phil’s house is right on the edge of it, magical things just tend to grow there. They seem to get drawn in by the magic just like Clint had been. There’s a spiderweb of magic faultlines, spreading out from Phil’s little house and extending out into the darker foliage of the deep forest. Things grow and show up more often closer in, like in Phil’s garden or right on the edge of the forest, but those things tend to be more mundane magic-wise, more common. But, the farther into the forest Clint treks, the weirder stuff he finds. There’s a grove of birch trees, about a half a mile in, that have a mossy carpet spanning the distances between their trunks, clover and deep purple foxglove growing in between the cracks. Dappled light sneaks in between little breaks in the leaves, landing directly on the moss, keeping it healthy and lit. He’s not sure why, exactly, but Clint’s always felt safe there, always felt welcomed. On occasion, he’ll bring a sprig or two of the foxglove home to Phil, but only if he _feels_ like it’s offered by the forest.

He’d tried to explain it to Phil, once, but failed miserably. It’s incredibly difficult to explain the way something feels -- but he always figured it was along the lines of some sort of vibe-thing. It works just about the same as getting a bad feeling about a place and then doing everything you can to avoid it, just -- more in depth and vastly more complicated. Magic is easy: if something or someone is magic, they tend to vibrate with energy. Magical things feel electrified. On the surface, they look just the same as normal things, but at the same time they look _different_ . Clint can just look at something and see it, see the wisps of glittery energy coming off it in waves, practically singing to him. Phil has that same ability (nearly everyone who deals with magic _does_ ), just to a lesser degree. Usually Phil has to be touching something to feel it, to ‘see’ it. Clint has brought him things that the man didn’t realize had magical potential until he held them in his hands.

It’s the _right vs. wrong_ vibe that’s a little harder to explain. Sometimes he can just look at things -- a dogwood sprig, a tuberose root, a scraping of quick-growing lichen -- and know that Phil needs them, that they are ready and willing to go to Phil, to be used. Other times, he comes near certain things that practically hiss and growl in his direction. They make it abundantly clear that they are either not willing to be used or they are simply _not ready yet_ . It’s a problem a lot of witches encounter while gathering their own herbs and such -- they have no way of telling what is willing and what isn’t (or simply doesn’t feel ready yet). Phil has explained to him that it’s one of the reasons witches enjoy having familiars around, or why specialty shop owners always _have_ familiars -- without that special touch, that sixth-sense for magical auras, they would make far more mistakes.

Phil never _asks_ it of him, which is kind of nice. Of all Phil’s idiosyncrasies revolving around _being polite_ , the fact that he never makes Clint feel used is probably the best in Clint’s book. It’s because of that that Clint helps out a lot, always tends to hover when Phil is mixing something or gathering or shopping. He can easily make replacements or substitutions, faster and better than Phil would be able to, and he always helps Phil yield better results. Wards, though, he tends to stay away from. They buzz and hum the same way that other magic items do, but they’re artificial. They’re crafted. Clint’s never quite liked the feel of them, but the ones in Phil’s house don’t bother him as much as others do. They feel safe and warm, and they sound resoundingly like _Phil._ Like home.

So, Phil never asks for things, but Clint brings them anyway. Because bringing home herbs (and dirt, and occasionally bugs) beats the hell out of his natural instinct to bring Phil small dead woodland creatures.

Phil hasn’t ever said anything about the now-apparent lack of dead things, but Clint figures it’s heavily appreciated anyway. Phil is just too polite to mention it -- he knows that much.

Bringing him things helps. It makes Clint feel good, like he’s doing something to help Phil. Anything, really. Like he’s being useful and not just hanging around, getting underfoot and in the way. This way, he can kind of justify himself and his desire to be around the other man. It’s sad, maybe, but it’s apparently the life that Clint has chosen for himself.

Clint just wishes -- well, he wishes that things were a little different, that’s all. A little more affection isn’t much to ask, even if it’s all he gets. He doesn’t _need_ more, but he needs something. The glaring _lack_ is getting a little (read: _way_ ) too heavy to bear. Clint can deal with a little pining, because that’s his life apparently, but he’d like a pat or two on the head, just to tide him over for forever. It’s either that, or he’s going to crumble into pieces. Every day, it gets a little harder. Some days, it feels like he’s made of glass so thin and fragile he’s bound to shatter at any given moment.

The day is nice -- so Clint indulges himself a little bit, He curls up on the soft moss, head on his paws, breathes in the smell of foxglove and the dirt, and he naps.

He wakes up when the sun is low in the afternoon sky. There are a few dappled rays of light that move over him, as the wind rustles the leaves in the trees. His fur is warm with the sun, though he has no intentions of switching to his human body, despite how much he enjoys the sun on his bare skin. It has nothing to do with the acceptance of the forest -- the trees care little for whichever body he’s choosing to inhabit. Clint simply prefers weaving in and out of the trees, the grasses, and the plants at a foot tall instead of almost six. He sees so much _more_ , notices more he can bring back to Phil, from this height. Ultimately, he feels more useful, more accepted.

Also, because Phil is often more at ease with him when he is walking on all fours.

That’s okay, he tells himself just about thirty times a day. He doesn’t _need_ Phil’s acceptance of his human body, of his human self, because it’s really the same self as when he’s a cat, despite Phil’s clear preference. He’s happy. He has a good life, a good home, and he still gets to curl up next to a warm body when he sleeps sometimes.

It works.

Besides, there’s not much he can do about it, Clint thinks to himself as he closes his eyes to nap. Not much he can do at all.

He stretches out, paws kneading against the sun-warmed moss, wishing there were a way to get Phil to notice him, to make his needs perfectly clear without actually _saying_ anything and opening himself up to all kinds of potential embarrassment. It could change their whole dynamic, make it awkward and unpleasant. Phil would hate that, and Clint would hate it too.

\--

Clint wakes up smelling like pollen and dirt, with an idea buzzing excitedly around in his head.

It’s probably not the best idea. But Clint has certainly had _worse_ (see: dead bird in Phil’s hands). Besides, it’s sort of fool proof. No opportunity for embarrassment or heartache. Well -- not _much_ embarrassment, anyway.

All he has to do is start slow, gauge Phil’s reactions, and not get his hopes up for anything at all.

* * *

* * *

 Phil thinks that Clint might actually be trying to kill him.

There are merits to either of Clint’s forms, but there are drawbacks, too. As a cat, Phil has quiet company that doesn’t necessitate human interaction -- but he doesn’t get a conversational partner. Just a quiet sounding-board for ideas and pleasant company.  As a human, Phil has actual interaction and someone quick and smart to talk to -- but he also has to face his own rather unprofessional attraction to the man. Face to face. Sometimes, it’s easier to let himself forget about his own guilty conscience, if only momentarily. Phil tells himself he prefers interacting with the cat version of Clint, but he knows that’s not the case.

Clint doesn’t typically spend an overwhelming amount of time as a human, so Phil never had too long to feel uncomfortable about his disrespectful crush.

Normally, Clint comes home as a cat, eats dinner as a cat, and only spends an hour or two lounging around Phil’s living room as a fully clothed human. Then, he goes to sleep, once again, in his feline form.

Now, apparently, Clint’s routine has suddenly changed.

Clint had returned home late that afternoon, just as the sun was dipping below the horizon, casting everything into the warm and hazy arms of twilight. The plants had hummed and the wards had chimed as Clint drew closer to the house from the forest, just as they always did when anyone approached. It was a nice little warning system, even though Phil hardly needed warning for Clint. The noises were pleasant and content, though, nothing to bristle or be annoyed at.

Phil had been in the kitchen when Clint had let himself in. He could hear telltale footsteps, the padding of bare feet against wood floors, that told him that he would be dining with a human companion tonight, instead of a cat.

“Hey, Phil,” Clint had said, leaning his way into the kitchen through the doorway. He hadn’t been wearing a shirt. Phil had looked very pointedly at Clint’s face, not letting his eyes wander in any direction whatsoever over tanned skin. There had been some stray leaves in his hair.

“Hello,” Phil had answered amicably. “Will you be in for dinner?” Clint usually was, but it was polite to ask. Regardless, Phil would make him a portion, anyway.

Phil had raised his hand and the wok on the stove had jumped in the air, tossing the vegetables about in a stir. Steam had risen, filling the air with the aroma of garlic, onions, and a hint of lemon. Phil had watched as Clint’s eyes fell closed as he breathed in. He was a gorgeous sight.

“And pass up dinner with you?” Clint had said, “Never. Besides, that smells great.” The man had stepped forward into the kitchen and Phil had been pleased to see that he had at least found a pair of jeans to slide on. “I brought you these.” Two small baskets full of all sorts of mushrooms. “This one,” Clint had held up the right basket, “for eating. This one,” and then, the left, “for everything else.” Spells, and the like. He knew Phil so well.

“Thank you.” Clint was too nice to him; Phil truly didn’t deserve it. It had only taken a moment to realize that almost all of the mushrooms that Clint had gathered were hard to come by in the wild and pricy in the markets. “You know that you don’t have to do this.” Phil had said.

“I know.” Clint had gone to set the baskets down on the counter, leaning into Phil’s space as he did so. His movements had been slow and languid, likely relaxed from his time in the forest. He had so casually brushed up against Phil, warm skin hot against the thin fabric of Phil’s linen shirt. And he had _lingered_. Crowding into Phil’s space like he belonged there. Practically rubbing against Phil like the cat that he currently was not. He had smelled like sleep and moss and sunlight. “But I wanted to bring them to you, so I did.” He had been so close, so touchable. Clint made contact like this so easily, like breathing -- like it meant nothing at all.

Eventually, Clint had leaned back.

Phil had tried to pretend his heart wasn’t pounding in his chest, that his self control wasn’t just tested. He had wanted desperately to run his fingers over Clint’s bare arm, his chest or his back.  But Clint wasn’t his pet, and he wasn’t his lover. He was a guest and a friend. Phil was lucky to have him, as is.

“Thank you,” Phil had said sincerely. He had then cleared his throat and taken a step backward. “Dinner will be in about twenty minutes.”

Clint, somehow, had looked displeased. But he had gathered himself after a second and then nodded. “Sounds good, Boss.”

\--

If Phil thinks the moment in the kitchen had been bad, he is sorely mistaken: dinner is even more of a trial.

Clint shows up as his human self, still shirtless, but now sparkling with a soft sheen of sweat. Phil knows that Clint works out, not that he necessarily needs to, but mostly because it’s something to do. He’s an active man and he likes to stay fit. It doesn’t _bother_ Phil -- but he also tries his best not to watch. He doesn’t need more temptation in his life.

He also doesn’t need Clint to come wandering into the kitchen, towel draped loosely over his shoulders, smelling like musk and fresh air. He leans up against the counter, moaning when he smells the food.

Phil swallows, hearing the click in his throat as loud as a gunshot.

Gods, give him strength.

“You’re cluttering up the kitchen, Clint.” Phil says, shooing him away from hovering at the stove with no purpose. He hands him a plate and a serving spoon and then serves himself after Clint.

Dinner is easy, as long as Phil doesn’t look too hard at Clint and his bare chest. As long as he doesn’t pay attention to the quiet, delighted sounds Clint is making around his fork. As long as he ignores the way Clint’s feet are kicked up onto Phil’s chair, resting casually against his thigh.

They have lived together for a while. Long enough to be comfortable around one another. It’s a bit like a professional found family, in a way. That’s what Phil supposes this is -- a familiar and his witch, living in synchronicity and harmony together. Clint does it so easily, just lets himself melt into Phil’s personal space. It makes Phil feel warm and welcome, but a little broken at his own inability to let down his guard. It feels rude to treat Clint like a pet, but it also feels rude to keep him at arm’s distance all the time, especially when Clint is so relaxed around Phil. Then again, Phil knows that’s just how Clint _is_. It’s in his nature. He’s touchy and friendly and kindhearted. He would be like that with anyone.

Every moment with him is a gift, just as much as it is a trial.

It’s even more a trial when Clint’s bare feet are resting up against Phil’s thigh like they belong there, with a touch so intimate and personal that it’s hard to forget that they’re not _that close_ in reality.

Phil aches.

And so maybe he finishes his food a little faster than he’d like. When he’s done, he gives Clint’s feet a quick nudge with his knee to signify he is scooting back his chair. The other man is already done, and has just been fiddling with one of Phil’s more uppity wards. It is currently singing slightly off-key in Clint’s strong, deft hands. It seems happy, if a little dissonant. Phil feels a bit like that, too.

“Thanks for dinner,” Clint says, a warm smile lighting up his whole face. When he gets up from his chair, he runs his palm over Phil’s shoulder.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Phil says, aiming for cordial and likely falling somewhere near partially-strangled.

\--

Phil finds that he has to more often remind himself now just how their arrangement works. Clint is not Phil’s pet, not his lover or his anything remotely like that. He is Phil’s colleague, if there can be any clear comparison made to their arrangement. Phil could consider Clint a friend, but he also doesn’t want to be rude with the assumption. They’ve never talked about it.

He also reminds himself that the power balance between them is not ideal. While Clint is an extremely powerful magical creature, he is also at a disadvantage. Around Phil, he is at his best. The height of his abilities. Without an arrangement like theirs, he could become stuck as a cat until he found a new witch.

It’s an imbalance that Phil doesn’t like. He doesn’t like the idea that Clint might put himself in a position to stay, even if he’s not happy about it. Of course, Phil knows that Clint is stubborn and strong-willed, that he has his own agency -- but he doesn’t like the fact that the possibility even exists.

Phil’s attraction to Clint is inconvenient. It exists, he acknowledges it -- but he must do his best to ignore it, to place it on a back burner until it simply fizzles out.

That’s doable. Right?

\--

It feels like Clint has upped the ante of a game Phil hadn’t realized he was playing until too late.

Suddenly, it’s like Clint is up in Phil’s space, every moment of every day. It starts off small: just little, soft touches and casual leans into Phil’s personal space. Cat-like. Friendly. Maybe twice a day. By the end of the week, Phil has definitely noticed a sharp upswing in both Clint’s time as a person and the number of moments that Clint is pressing himself against Phil.

It’s a lot.

And Phil’s self-control is only so strong.

On Saturday morning, Phil wakes up with a solid body pressed against his own, hot breath against his neck. Clint doesn’t snore, but he makes gentle little noises with each breath and it tickles the hairs at the back of Phil’s head. With the soft morning light slipping in through the curtains, coating the room in an ethereal glow and the pleasant windchime sounds of the plants still dozing, it is the perfect way to wake up. Phil can hear a few warblers outside, as well as a few wrens and chickadees picking up their morning chorus. If he lets himself drift without thinking, without letting his mind grasp onto anything concrete, he can imagine that this is routine. That his life is simply this perfect. That he wakes up to Clint fondly curled around him every day.

He does not, though. Often, Phil wakes up to a cat at his neck, or to an empty bed. Sometimes, he wakes up to a warm body next to him, but never so close. So intimate. With Clint draped over him like this, it feels like they’ve been together for years. Like they are at home with their bodies intertwined together.

Phil lets himself linger for a few moments because he’s only human. Besides, Clint seems so content.

He indulges.

And then he pulls away. Because it’s only fair.

Or -- well, he tries.

Clint is wrapped around him like a vice. The second Phil moves, Clint’s arms tighten to pull him impossibly closer. The man nuzzles against Phil’s neck and makes sleep-soft sounds against the skin there. Phil shivers. Clint’s bare chest is pressed flush up against Phil’s back, no room for air in between their bodies.

“Clint,” Phil manages. His voice is rough and low. It would be embarrassing, if he wasn’t already mildly ashamed by the whole thing.

“Mmpf,” Clint says, lips brushing against Phil’s neck. His fingers clench in Phil’s shirt and he _whines_.

This is it. This is where Phil’s heart gives out. He’s had a good run, a great life. But he can only expect so much of his body, can only put it through so much stress.

“Five more minutes,” Clint mumbles.

Phil gives him three.

Then, he pries himself out of bed because he must. He flicks open the curtains with a wave of his hand, flooding the room with bright morning light. Clint turns and buries his face under the pillows. Phil spends a moment too long watching the way the rays of light drape over Clint’s back, the way his freckles form constellations over sun-kissed skin. Clint stretches and Phil watches the play of muscles underneath his skin, watches the way Clint changes the terrain of the bed in an ocean of white sheets.

In all of the world wonders Phil has seen and beautiful spells he has witnessed in his years on this extraordinary planet, he has to admit that _this_ is the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. Clint, dozing in his bed in the lazy morning light.

Whatever game it is, Phil feels like he is losing.

* * *

* * *

 Clint can’t be sure, but he feels like he is gaining ground, approaching something blurring like a mirage in the distance. He can’t be sure what, but whatever it is, it feels like it’s just around the corner, only slightly out of his reach and also comprehension.

Whatever it is, he wants it.

Even if it’s a gigantic explosion. At this point, he feels like he deserves that the most.

All Clint had wanted was to gauge Phil’s reactions to Clint giving himself what he so desperately needs: a little affection. Even if he’s taking it for himself. And gauge Clint had. He had given himself over to his own instincts -- had leaned in on Phil when he wanted to, had brushed against him just because he could. He had started out slow, had kept everything light -- but then he started kicking his restraint to the curb. He initiated lingering casual touches, got up in Phil’s space, even curled around the man while he slept.

And Clint _watched._ He watched each and every one of Phil’s reactions. Made a mental note of when Phil leaned in and when he held his breath, perhaps waiting for Clint to be done with whatever it was he was doing. Those times hurt the most, but they also weren’t terrible. They helped to develop a pattern, a better way for Clint to seek needed contact in a way that Phil didn’t loathe.

Most importantly: at no point in time had Phil ever pushed Clint away. Phil is a very respectful man, but he isn’t a pushover -- that, Clint knows. If he didn’t want Clint in his space, he simply wouldn’t let it happen. So, he clearly doesn’t _mind_. But he never initiates anything, never steps into Clint’s space, never looks for Clint first.

The question now, is: does Phil _like_ Clint being in his space? Does he like this casual closeness? And, more importantly, does he want _more_?

Or, is it simply another layer of respect? Phil respects Clint enough not to touch him, but also respects him enough to not recoil from his instincts.

\--

Clint ups the ante.

Partially because he can, but partially because his gradual approach is getting him nowhere in terms of actual knowledge in terms of Phil.

It may, actually, just be driving him crazy.

Now, he knows what it’s like to be close to Phil, even if he’s always the one leaning in first. Even if he’s the one filling his own quota of affection. It’s good, it’s _so good_ \-- but each moment is also coupled with an unforgettable undercurrent of pain. There’s nothing reciprocated, nothing even about any of this. Just Phil and his usual, steady self, and Clint trying so hard not to fall apart.

If Phil would only touch him, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad.

Clint starts sleeping next to Phil as a human every night. It’s nice, being that close to Phil -- but it’s also tough. All he wants is for Phil to wrap around him, but he won’t. Phil just accepts Clint’s familiarity like it’s a personality trait, not the affection that it truly is. All Clint wants is to be loved, even if it’s strictly platonic. He can deal with that. He _can_ . It isn’t _all_ that he wants, but it’s what he’ll be happy with.

He’d be happy with any part of Phil, really. Even the most base level he started out with.

But he’ll never forgive himself if he doesn’t try for more than nothing. Even if it’s in the most roundabout way possible. This is easier -- it’s so much better than just _asking_. Putting himself out there and risking absolute rejection. This leaves room for interpretation. If anything, Clint can fall back on the excuse of instinct.

_Sorry, Phil, just needed some human contact because my instincts were driving me crazy. Definitely no other reason or anything. No hard feelings, right?_

So, everything is ramped up a notch.

It doesn’t really do all that much, other than result in Clint feeling more and more lost. Out of his depths and close to crumbling. All he wants is for that one moment of contact, not initiated by him.

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire life.

And it just -- keeps not happening.

\--

Clint steps out of the shower stark naked, right when Phil is brushing his teeth. It’s completely accidental. But Phil nearly chokes on his toothpaste and he quickly looks away, giving Clint the privacy Phil thinks he deserves. Within moments, Phil absconds from the bathroom, finishing brushing his teeth at the kitchen sink.

Clint tries not to feel disappointed as he watches Phil’s retreating back.

\--

In the afternoon, Clint is lounging on the couch as a cat while Phil works in the study. Clint hadn’t wanted to bother him, given that he was working. Clint may want to press into Phil’s space and push his luck, but he also doesn’t want to get underfoot. The last thing he wants to do is be a nuisance.

So, Clint lounges while Phil mixes potions and fixes up talismans. It’s nice, Phil is just in the other room, happily working away. It’s Clint’s favorite room, perhaps because the quality of light always makes Coulson seem touchable. The light always filters through the windows as a pale yellow-orange in the afternoon and catches on all of the crystals in the window. The entire room becomes swathed in a constellation of colors and light. And when they hit Phil, prisms lovingly landing on the slope of his cheek as he works on something at his desk? Well, Clint could probably die from how beautiful it is. How close Phil seems.

Clint never reaches out, though. He just sits, curled up on the windowsill or in the pot of one of his favorite plants, and watches. Daydreams about a world in which Phil is just _there_ , in which Clint could reach out, but in which Phil would too.

Today, Clint can’t even bear to be in the study with Phil. Everything feels like a bit much, like the rejection of Phil refusing to touch him will snap Clint’s mind in two. So, he chooses simple solitude and the knowledge that Phil is only a few doors away.

Clint tries not to feel so alone, but fails miserably.

It hurts, deep down, in a way that is starting to feel familiar but hasn’t yet become numb.

One of the vines from a nearby plant creeps across the couch and unfurls its ferned leaves against his fur. It’s not quite a stroke, not the same as a hand on him, but it’s _nice_ . It’s overwhelmingly _kind_. If Clint were a human right now, he’d probably be feeling a little choked up. As it is, his heart hurts weakly in his chest at the thought that even the plants can tell that he’s sulking.

Or maybe he just feels _that_ alone. Maybe it’s seeping into the air around him, darkening his aura. Maybe the plants just want him to _stop_.

Clint takes a deep breath, trying to center himself as best as he can. The touch of the plant is calming, as is the general sort of hum that it’s emitting. It’s enough that it lulls him into a quiet doze.

When Clint wakes up -- did he fall asleep? He must have, the sun is in a different place and the shadows in the room are longer and -- Phil is there next to him.

“Hello,” Phil says, when Clint makes an involuntary trilling noise when he notices the company. _Embarrassing_. Phil still looks fond, though. Pleased for the company while he is reading.

Clint stretches. In the process of doing so, he feels his body unfold itself into his human form. His muscles tingle and his skin scratches pleasantly against the fabric of the couch. Phil politely looks away as Clint grabs a blanket to drape over his lower half. He’s not trying for a repeat of the morning and the pain of Phil running away from him.

When Clint finishes stretching, he is still lying across the couch, but somehow his head has ended up in Phil’s lap.

His heart thumps in his chest. He waits for the ball to drop, for Phil to ask him to move or to gently nudge him away.

It doesn’t happen.

Instead, Phil goes back to reading. Upside down, Clint can see Phil’s trademark half-smile resting contentedly on his lips.

After a few tense minutes of waiting, Clint finally allows himself to relax. The minutes pass and Phil continues reading. The vine of the plant curls lazily around Clint’s ankle, loose and relaxed and full of life. At some point, Phil had opened the windows of the room, allowing the breeze float through the curtains, filling the living room with the smells of twilight and the forest, of amber and dusk. The heat from Phil’s thigh seeps into the back of Clint’s head, warm and relaxing and almost familiar.

He lazes like that for a while, drifting not quite into sleep, but not fully awake, either. The sun dips below the trees and Phil snaps his fingers -- a few candles around the room lighting themselves to give him more light with which to read. Clint likes the way the flames bring dancing shadows to the walls, to the ceiling. It’s easier to watch them than to watch Phil.

The moment feels so perfect, but Clint cannot forget the dull and constant ache in his chest that tells him that this moment of closeness isn’t really his life. That he wants more than just this. That Phil has drawn a line in the sand and Clint has been pushing his limits for weeks.

He can’t really stop now, though. Clint feels like an avalanche -- a catastrophic natural disaster coming only for himself. This whole thing started slow and has now picked up so much speed and ferocity that he cannot stop his desire for touch. His desire for _Phil’s_ touch. It’s overwhelming

It’s all going to end in ruin. Clint knows it.

So -- he figures he might as well go out with a bang.

Channeling the loneliness in his chest, harnessing it for courage, Clint reaches up for Phil’s hand and grasps it in his own. Phil stills. His fingers are warm in Clint’s hand. Slowly, Clint moves Phil’s hand to the top of his head, laying those perfect fingers on his hair. Clint is resolute. Even though Phil is incredibly stiff, his touch is warm, the heat from his hand seeping delightfully into Clint’s scalp.

He removes his hand, letting Phil’s go. Clint can’t bring himself to meet Phil’s eyes, so he closes his own. He swallows and swallows and swallows the knot in his throat, waiting for Phil to carefully move his hand away. He’ll be polite about it. Cordial and professional. But it will still burn.

Clint readies himself for the moment -- but it never comes.

Slowly, cautiously, Phil moves his fingers. But -- his hand doesn’t move from where Clint left it. Instead, Phil begins carding his fingers through Clint’s hair. His touch is neither light nor heavy: it’s deliberate. Purposeful. Perfect. Everything about Phil is so conscious, it shouldn’t be a surprise. Nothing about him is ever out of control.

The fingers in his hair feels like heaven, like Clint has been offered a small piece of salvation. He readily takes it, holding onto the feeling with both hands, refusing to ever let go.

Phil doesn’t stop. After a while, Clint can no longer feel eyes on him, can hear the slightly stilted one-handed turning of pages of Phil’s book. The paper crinkles, Phil breathes, and the fingers continue combing through Clint’s hair.

After what feels like nearly an hour, when the room is dark and the plant has uncurled from Clint’s ankle to sleep, Clint hazards a glance at Phil. When Clint looks up, he can’t quite meet the other man’s eyes, but he does watch Phil’s face and the shadows playing over it. He looks fond and a little lost, grey eyes watching the way his fingers curl into Clint’s hair. Any hard edge about him is gone, replaced with something easy and smooth.

 _Soft_ is a good look on Phil.

Clint wishes he could keep it forever.

* * *

* * *

Phil’s life has somehow simultaneously gotten better and also worse.

Better, because Clint -- who had already been a huge part of Phil’s life -- has somehow managed to work himself even further into the tapestry of Phil’s everyday existence. It feels like every moment is suddenly filled with Clint. He spends what feels like most of the day with some part of him pressed up against Phil, pressing their auras so close together until they blur into one. If he’s not actively there, Phil is thinking about him, ruminating on phantom touches and places his skin still feels warm from from Clint brushing up against him hours before. It would be suffocating with anyone else, but with Clint -- it just feels _right_. Like Phil’s life is finally complete. Loose threads of loneliness have now tied themselves together and Phil loves it more than he should.

It’s worse, because Phil knows that it’s all a desperate fantasy.

Clint, leaning up against him in the kitchen, their sides flush together, is just a gesture of affection from a man who is overwhelmingly affectionate.

His hand in Clint’s hair is nice, but it also reminds Phil just how much a creature of instinct Clint is. Clint _needs_ contact -- that’s just how he is. And Phil has been depriving him, selfishly.

Phil can’t shake the guilt of depriving Clint of human contact for so long. It eats at his conscience and sours a bit of his magic. It’s not bad -- he has more control than that -- but he can tell. Everything has a bit more of an acrid, sharp aftertaste to it. A bite that hadn’t been there before.

He also can’t shake the guilt of wanting more than just what Clint seems to be asking for. Or, of enjoying it way too much.

Clint clearly had gotten desperate enough for contact that he had finally given in and let Phil know exactly what he wanted. Insofar as physically taking Phil’s hand and putting it on his head. Clint is good at letting Phil know what he wants. He does it in so many realms -- he lets Phil know when he is hungry, when he is tired -- when he needs _anything_ , really. He’s not shy about his desires, or about asking for anything at all.

Phil can only imagine how embarrassing it must be to have to ask for something like this, though. It’s likely why Clint let it go for so long.

Clint typically gives into his instincts -- running through the house at all hours, staring at shadows Phil cannot see, rolling in patches of sunlight -- but his aversion to this says a lot.

The guilt is heavier than he is used to. It drapes over him like a blanket laden with rocks, bulky and unfamiliar. It gets heavier every time they are sitting on the couch and Phil buries his fingers in Clint’s hair and _enjoys it_. Sure, he shouldn’t hate it -- but he also shouldn’t be assigning feelings to it in the first place. Clint isn’t a pet, isn’t Phil’s partner -- he is his familiar. Phil is only giving Clint what he needs. Nothing more.

It does get easier, though. As do most self-indulgent things. Phil is aware that’s how addiction works.

Phil finds himself initiating touches first. Friendly leans, brushes of his fingertips over the back of Clint’s hand, a firm hand on his upper arm, fingers in his hair. He justifies it by telling himself it’s what Clint needs, what he _asked_ for without actually asking.

And, for the most part, it seems to be working. If Phil disregards his guilt, anyway.

Phil never would have said that Clint was _unhappy_ beforehand. But now, it is clearly apparent that something had been lacking in Clint’s life. The man seems so much happier now in both of his skins, more settled and grounded. It’s like the touch anchors him into reality and keeps all of his occasionally jagged edges smoothed down. It looks like his shifts between animal and man are easier, that he sleeps better, that the magic around him is more brilliant and powerful.

It could likely has something to do with magic passing through skin as well, but Phil doesn’t want to be rude and _ask_. It’s also very possible that Clint doesn’t know. It’s not like there is a guidebook for either of them to go by.

Besides, they’re making do.

Even with a few rough patches along the way.

Clint seems happier, and that is all that Phil wants or needs.

\--

Some mornings, coffee just isn’t enough for Clint.

Phil finds Clint three mugs in on a drowsy, dreary day, with his body draped bonelessly over Phil’s kitchen table. _Their_ kitchen table. Items are scattered around him, pushed to the side to provide for more room to loll. Clint whines when he notices that Phil has walked into the kitchen, plaintive and pitiful. And adorable.

Phil closes his eyes for a moment, unable to look at the man sprawled across the wooden table in his threadbare shirt with his signature messy bedhead. It’s just a little too much.

After a beat, when Phil has pushed most of his emotions -- desire, fondness, heartache, yearning -- deep inside his chest, in a pocket behind his ribs, he opens his eyes. Clint looks back at him, eyes tired and expression so soulfully sorrowful it’s almost laughable. “I’m so _tired_ ,” he whines. Again, it hits something buried in Phil’s gut that he tries very hard to ignore. It’s difficult. Especially when Clint looks at him with those bright eyes. “Today just -- isn’t working out. I hereby cancel it.”

“I’ll make you some tea,” Phil offers, already setting out a pot for boiling water. It’s not like he has anything pressing to do for the day. He can devote an unnecessary and unreasonable amount of time to making Clint’s day better.

Besides, that’s kind of Phil’s job. Keep his familiar happy.

“Can’t we just go back to bed?” Clint whines as Phil is measuring out some chamomile, lemongrass, and a pinch of anise and mint. He mixes those with jasmine tea and fills the teapot with boiling water. The aroma hits the room at the same time as the steam rises from the pot. When Phil steps closer to Clint, placing the steaming mug on the table in front of him, Clint lists sideways, leaning on Phil. It’s adorable and heart-wrenching and sweet. Phil cannot help himself when his fingers drift into Clint’s hair, combing through it in what he hopes is a comforting fashion.

“We can’t just go back to bed,” Phil says, even though there’s nothing stopping them other than Phil’s sheer stubbornness. He’d like nothing more than to just while away the day with Clint in a sea of cotton sheets -- but he can’t. It’s asking too much, _giving in_ too much. But Phil also can’t say no to Clint, not really, so he offers the next best thing: “How about the couch?” That way, Phil can still pretend to be doing work.

Clint nods against Phil’s stomach. “Fine.” He sounds grumpy, miserable -- but Phil can already feel the shift in his aura, the lightening of it.

On the couch, Clint shifts restlessly between man and cat, like he just can’t seem to settle in his own skin.

There is no casual creeping into Phil’s space like before, like Clint is trying to subtly play a game or test boundaries. Instead, now he full-body presses himself against Phil like he can’t seem to get quite close enough. Like a fraction of space between them is just _too much_.

The tea helps, but the skin contact helps more.

Eventually, Clint settles with his head on Phil’s thigh, Phil’s palm pressed firmly against the back of Clint’s neck. Grounding him.

Phil works. It’s not as easy on the couch instead of spread out in his study, but it is just as pleasant. Especially with Clint and the living-room plants as company. The room is just as inviting, just as magical, and Phil finds himself falling into a nice headspace of focus. Magic swirls around them as he renews wards and charms talismans, as he makes notes in his journal for new spells and additions to potions.

It all comes so easily, so quickly. _Effortlessly._

Magic is far easier with Clint in the vicinity. In the same room, or even in the same acre. With Clint nearby, everything simply flows better, swirling easily in the air around him. Settling in underneath his skin. Phil never thought of how easy magic might be while actually touching Clint. Now, with his fingers on Clint’s neck, the possibilities feel endless. The power of it is breathtaking and beautiful.

Even as a man, Clint purs. The tendons in Phil’s hand rumble with the noise and the effort. It fills him with warmth and affection, heating him down to the very core. It’s comfortable. Like they’ve been doing this for years.

And, for a blissful few hours, Phil forgets the guilt and simply lets himself enjoy the intimacy of the moment.

\--

It’s really not a problem.

Well. It’s not a problem until Phil carefully extricates himself from Clint’s sleeping form around dinner time. He delicately pulls himself free and slides a pillow under Clint’s head, having zero desire to wake the man. Likely he didn’t sleep well last night, and sleep is the great healer. If Clint feels unsettled, the only thing that will truly fix him is a good night’s (or afternoon’s) rest. Phil doesn’t want to stand in the way of that.

So, he gathers some blankets to drape over Clint, so that the chill of the evening doesn’t disturb his sleep. It’s as Phil is folding the quilt around Clint that he slips up. He presses the edges of it in around Clint, folding him into a pocket of warmth. Phil smooths a palm over Clint’s arm under the quilt, leans down, and brushes his lips over Clint’s forehead.

He is warm and he smells like sleep and moss and _home_ . Phil’s lips linger there for a moment too long. It’s _nice_. It’s wonderful.

Before Phil realizes that _any_ moment spent with his lips to Clint’s forehead is a moment too long.

Phil swallows and stands, heart racing. He cannot believe his own audacity, his own thoughtless greed. The guilt hits him like the front of a storm -- tumultuous and unyielding. It grips his throat, halts his breathing. Pushes him up and away. Clint is not his to kiss.

Phil retreats to the kitchen, stumbling backward, clumsy and off-balance. Good gods _,_ he cannot believe himself.

* * *

* * *

Something is _wrong_.

Clint wakes up feeling well rested, for once. The burning, itching energy that had been crawling underneath his skin is gone. It must have faded away while he slept. He wakes up sprawled on the couch, covered in a nest of blankets. Phil must have made this happen. That’s not the problem.

The last he remembers is that Phil was here, warm and solid, his thigh underneath Clint’s cheek. Now, he is gone. When Clint stretches a hand out, the couch is cold where he had been sitting, which means that he left a while ago. Likely, got up to make dinner. But, a quick glance to the window, to the moonlight outside, tells Clint that it’s way past dinner time. The aroma of spices hangs in the air, but there is no clattering from the kitchen, no Phil to wake him up and tell him that it’s time to eat.

When Clint gets up, tugs on pants and drapes one of the softer blankets of his shoulders (unwilling to lose the comfort of sleep just yet), he shuffles to the kitchen. No Phil. No Phil in the bedroom either. When Clint makes it to the doorway of the study, he stops short.

The door is closed.

 _Closed_.

In all the time Clint has been here, Phil has never once closed a room off from him before.

Clint paces for a moment. He turns, walks down the hallway and back toward the living room, only to end up at the door to the study again. He waits. He hesitates. But what if Phil is hurt, what if he’s not okay? Clint shakes his head -- of course he’s okay. Phil is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. But the worry gets the best of Clint, landing him back outside the door even after he’s turned around again. Clint finally just knocks -- faint and polite.

“Phil?”

“Yes?” Phil’s voice is muffled through the door. Far away. He doesn’t sound happy -- but he also doesn’t sound hurt, either. So, at least he’s _safe_.

“Um,” Clint says, leaning against the wood door. He doesn’t actually have a voiceable question. _Why did you lock me out_ , sounds too childish, too needy -- even if it’s the exact question Clint wants to ask. Sure, he could try the handle, but that feels too much like an invasion of privacy. As much as Clint will happily get all up in Phil’s space when he’s right there, Clint at least respects Phil’s privacy, his agency. If Phil doesn’t want to be bothered, he will can just -- close the door.

Which is exactly what he’s done.

It makes Clint wonder just what happened. _Why_ Phil closed the door. Everything had been just fine, up until Clint fell asleep on the couch. Phil’s mood had seemed good, his spirits light and airy. The magic in the living room had been swirling beautifully around them, as magnificent as the aurora borealis. Watching, experiencing it had been breathtaking.

Phil had seemed _content_. Grounded and steady in a way that seemed more concrete than usual. Like roots of his power had burrowed into the earth around the both of them.

Now?

Not so much.

Clint can’t see into the office, but he can feel the anxiety and unease seeping out from the cracks around the door. Phil’s aura is dark, twisting. Malcontent.

Clint doesn’t like it one bit.

When he doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t _have_ an answer, Phil keeps talking. “I put your dinner in the fridge.”

Which is -- yeah, okay. That’s fine. It’s not like Phil gathers him nearly every day for dinner or anything -- except he does. He at least usually asks if Clint is joining him. To make it worse, for the past few weeks, they’ve been dining together every night. Clint has gotten _used_ to that. Just as he’s gotten used to the touch, the affection. Maybe he shouldn’t have.

Judging by the painful disappointment rolling like a storm in his gut right now, Clint _really_ shouldn’t have.

At least Phil was thoughtful enough to make Clint a portion and put it in the fridge. Maybe it’s because every time Clint tries to use the stove, he nearly burns down the house. So, it’s probably more self preservation on Phil’s part. Not like -- well, anything else.

Clint is a disaster. Phil knows this. It’s just self preservation and pity at this point. Phil is too good a man. Clint isn’t sure why he ever had his hopes up for more.

He tries to remind himself of his place. That he and Phil are pretty much just colleagues. Nothing else. Even if he was allowed to play at more, just for a haunting little bit.

Silence. Clint can hear Phil rustling around behind the door, just subtle shifts of the fabric of his clothes. Nothing huge. Just Phil working, the way he normally does. Doing something that Clint normally watches from the windowsill or from a potted plant.

The lack aches.

“Is that it?” Phil asks.

“Yeah,” Clint manages, trying to work around the knot in his throat. He feels like he’s choking, like there’s just not enough air for him in the hallway. “Yeah,” he repeats. “That’s it.”

\--

Clint waits for him in bed, curled up as a cat. Phil appreciates his cat form more, so that’s what Clint settles down as.

Not that it really matters, because Phil never comes to bed. He works completely through the night.

\--

In the morning, Clint has to nearly physically restrain himself from twining around Phil’s legs when he pads into the kitchen on four paws and finds the man there. Clint is embarrassingly happy to see him. Phil is at the stove, making some sort of omelette. He looks -- well, he looks kind of like shit, really. He’s got a day’s worth of stubble and his clothes are wrinkled from, presumably, working through the night. Or falling asleep at his desk. Clint’s seen him do that before, when he’s had a big project coming up. He doesn’t have anything now, at least not that he’s told Clint about.

Clint idles in the doorway, unsure if he’s welcome in the kitchen, no door for Phil to close. It’s a strange feeling -- not one that he ever anticipated having in this house, not with how welcoming and accommodating Phil has always been.

It’s nearly five minutes before Phil notices him. The man is clearly startled when he looks over and sees Clint there, though most people wouldn’t be able to tell. Clint just knows Phil well enough to read the subtle tick up in his eyebrows, the tightening of the muscles in his jaw.

Clint waits for the familiar _hello_ \-- but it never comes. Instead, he gets: “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there, Clint.”

At least he’s not a human right now. Clint figures that would be even _more_ awkward.

Phil looks at him for a moment, considering. Then, presumably when Clint doesn’t shift into a human, Phil turns down the heat on the omelette and opens the fridge. He frowns at the dinner Clint couldn’t bring himself to eat last night, and takes out the heavy cream, the kind that Phil puts in his coffee on bad days, the kind that Clint doesn’t date touch. It’s from a nearby farm and Clint knows it’s hard for Phil to get his hands on, so Clint manages to keep his own hands off it (as delicious as it is). Phil then pours a generous portion of it into a small bowl and sets it on the table.

He nods in Clint’s direction, but doesn’t make eye contact. Then, he nods at the bowl. “It’s for you.” As if Phil would pour himself a saucer of heavy cream and drink from it (Clint would, as a human, because it’s just that good -- but Phil wouldn’t).

It’s confusing. It’s a treat, Clint knows, but Phil is also acting like he’s mad at Clint. Or annoyed. It’s _weird_.

Clint helps himself to the saucer anyway. Jumps on the table and eagerly laps it up. Because he has no shame. Or pride. Besides, it feels a bit like an apology, but he’s not sure why, since Phil still seems -- off.

Later, Phil gives Clint a portion of his omelette. It’s cheesy and has bacon and spinach and mushrooms stuffed inside. He’s no gourmet chef, but damn can Phil cook something hearty. They eat in silence. No pleasant conversation from Phil’s end, no quippy one-liners. Phil can barely even look at him.

Clint can’t even offer to do the dishes to make up for whatever slight, because he knows -- he can just _tell_ \-- that Phil doesn’t want to be around him as a human this morning. Every time his eyes land on Clint and he sees a cat, he seems a little -- relieved.

It _hurts_.

Clint spends the rest of the morning, the afternoon, as well as the evening in that mossy patch in the forest. The foxgloves and rose nettles bow around him in a protective arch while he dozes the day away. The young birches whistle and the towering oaks hum -- it’s easy to lose himself in the symphony of the forest for a little while. It’s a hell of a lot easier than trying to be at home, pretending everything’s okay.

When Clint gets home, pulling leaves and twigs out of blonde human hair, he isn’t at all surprised to find the study door closed. He doesn’t bother knocking -- he knows Phil is busy, that there are probably left overs in the fridge for him.

He does brush his knuckles gently over the door, though. The longing is so heady, so aching, he just can’t stop himself.

\--

Clint doesn’t know what he did, but it was something. They continue on in the same pattern for a week: closed doors, minimal conversation, practically no eye contact. Mornings are the easiest -- where Phil still occasionally talks, makes him breakfast, and they pretend everything is alright. And that’s kinda it, really. If Clint squints and tilts his head a bit, everything seems fine on the surface. It’s close to how they were when they _first_ started out. Cordial acquaintances. But they’re not that anymore, and that’s the frustrating part. They’re _friends_. And, immediately before this, they felt like they were actually getting comfortable with one another. That makes it smart even more.

He tries bringing Phil things, but it doesn’t work. Nothing works.

Clint hovers in the shadows like a ghost, like an unwelcome entity in a house that doesn’t really feel like _his_ anymore. Even though nothing _huge_ has changed, nothing monumental.

It sucks.

\--

Unfortunately, Clint can only act like a dog with its tail between its legs for so long.

First off, mostly because he’s a not a dog at all.

Secondly -- well, Clint doesn’t do quietly repentant well. Especially when he doesn’t know what he _did_.

The hurt starts to grate, to chafe, until it rots steadily into anger inside him. Frustration, at this whole situation. Guilt and longing and desire and sure, maybe a little bit of resentment, too. It’s not _fair_. None of this is fair. Phil doesn’t get to be the one to shut Clint out without a word. Phil doesn’t get to lock himself away and look like crap in the mornings.

Clint at least has the decency to be wearing pants and a shirt when he ambushes Phil.

He waits for the man outside his study. Clint can be quiet when he wants to be, when he’s not falling over his own feet or clipping doorways. This is Clint, standing quietly outside Phil’s door for the better part of three hours, silent and stock-still. Stalking his prey.

The door opens. Phil’s eyes fall on Clint, who is standing opposite the door, arms crossed over a threadbare purple shirt. Phil does not jump, but he certainly startles. His muscles tighten, his eyebrows raise. He pauses in the doorway, looking very much like he’s considering walking backward through it, back into the sanctuary of the study.

“Clint,” Phil finally manages. He sounds almost totally normal. If Clint didn’t know him so well, he’d think everything was fine. “Can I help you with something?” Ever nonchalant, harmless. There is something so calming about Phil’s demeanor. Clint feels the anger slipping away, even though he doesn’t want it to.

“Think maybe I should be asking you that.”

Phil just raises his eyebrows.

“You’re avoiding me,” Clint clarifies. No use in beating around the bush.

“I’ve simply been busy.” Phil says. It sounds rehearsed. If Phil weren’t avoiding Clint, he’d sound hurt by the accusation. He doesn’t.

“Uh huh.” Clint takes a careful step forward. Phil doesn’t move, but he does appraise Clint like he’s a predator. It’s not untrue. Clint is both a predator and powerful. He doesn’t have control over his magic like Phil does, but if he wanted to, if he was scared enough, he could probably level the house. Not that he would ever want to.

Phil’s expression twists minutely. A subtle shift of his eyebrows, a twitch next to his lips. A small, guilty frown in his eyes. Clint catches it all. “Tea?” Phil suggests.

“Coffee.” Clint needs it.

\--

“I’m sorry,” Phil says, over the steam from his coffee. He does look contrite, remorseful. “I know I have been -- well, ‘aloof’ is putting it lightly.” Clint snorts. Phil continues: “I needed some space alone to recenter myself. I should have simply told you instead of not saying anything.”

Clint isn’t convinced. “What did I do?” If he’s going to apologize for something, too, he wants to know what for. He’s not good with blanket apologies, shooting in the dark and hoping something lands.  

Phil frowns. He looks genuinely surprised at the question. “ _You_ didn’t do anything, Clint.” Phil quickly reassures him. “I promise. No part of this is your fault.”

Clint narrows his eyes. _No part of this_ , Phil said. It’s not a huge logical jump to make: “So, something’s wrong.” Clint says. But it’s not his fault. That’s -- good to hear, he _guesses_. But,at the same time, it doesn’t solve anything.

Phil doesn’t quite nod, but doesn’t shake his head either. He just shrugs his shoulders, very slightly. “I need to recenter myself, that’s all.”

Ugh, like that’s any help at all. What does that even mean, _recenter_? Phil is pretty much the most centered person Clint knows. The most stable, the most steady. But Phil is smart, he is resourceful and he is kind. He deserves the benefit of the doubt. So, Clint gives him that. “Alright,” he says with a nod.

Like it’s that easy.

\--

Things get a little better.

There’s no more closed doors, no more Phil sleeping in his study at night. They eat meals together, start laughing again together, even sit on the couch next to each other. It’s a bit more awkward, more stilted, but it’s _fine_. It’s doable.

Phil stops avoiding Clint at every opportunity -- but he looks at him less.

Well -- that’s not entirely true.

Phil only looks at Clint when Clint’s not looking at him. It’s not like Clint can’t feel the weight of Phil’s eyes on him, the prickling energy of his stare. But whenever Clint looks back at him, tries to catch his gaze, Phil’s eyes are always elsewhere.

Also, the contact has stopped.

And that’s just about killing Clint.

Sure, he can still wrap himself around Phil’s legs or wake him up with a paw to the lips, but that’s only when he’s a cat. When he’s a human? Phil shies away from him like a plant hiding from the shade. Subtle, elegant -- but it’s still avoidance. They had been getting _so far_ , that’s the frustrating part. Sure, Clint could lean into Phil whenever he wants, probably, but it’s not the same as Phil reaching out and making the contact. And he had started doing that, all before it ground to a screeching halt.

Clint does everything. He is polite and friendly and _he even wears a shirt._ He knows how much Phil appreciates him clothed. He leans close, whenever possible -- but not quite close enough -- waiting for Phil to reach out, but it never happens. Phil always looks at him, a little pained and a little something else that Clint can’t quite put his finger on, and then moves away.

He even cooks Phil breakfast.

Or, well. He _tries_.

“ _I'm sorry!_ ” Clint says, over the sound of crackling flames, trying not to choke on the smell of burnt fur. The bacon had caught on fire pretty much instantaneously and Clint hadn’t been able to fight his body’s defensive transformation into a cat. By the time he’d been able to claw himself into his human body again, the bacon had been burned to a crisp and a few flaming bits of grease had escaped and gotten lodged in his fur. _Ouch_.

Phil wills the fire away with a quiet word and a calm gesture. He funnels it into a small jar, then releases it into the fireplace to burn itself out.

Clint stands dejected in the middle of the kitchen. At least he’d had time to pull his pants back on while Phil was dealing with the fire. He’s in the process of tugging his shirt over his head when Phil stops him. “Wait,” Phil says. There’s so much force in the word that Clint cannot help but obey. Phil is like that, sometimes -- lacing magic into his words. He doesn’t do it often, but he does save it for special occasions. Like this, where he perhaps could sense Clint’s desperate need to _run_. To escape from this whole situation.

The best way to deal with problems is sometimes to ignore them. Or to run away. In this case -- Clint wants to run.

Unfortunately, he when he tries to move his feet, it feels like they’re stuck to the ground with molasses. Damn magic.

“You’re hurt,” Phil says. His eyes catch on a few burnt patches on Clint’s torso.

“Not _really_.”

Phil raises his eyebrows.

“Only kinda.”

“Please let me help,” Phil asks. And Clint can’t refuse. Not because of magic, or anything -- Phil wouldn’t ever _make_ him do anything -- but because of the look on Phil’s face. He looks so sad, so concerned. Clint can’t ignore him and run away. Even if he should be the one to deal with this whole mess, not Phil.

“I’m sorry,” Clint says as he follows Phil into the study. It feels good to be back in the room again with Phil -- Clint had been avoiding it, not wanting to encroach on Phil’s time and space. The moment he walks in the door, the plants chime and hum their approval, shifting toward him enthusiastically. The wards buzz pleasantly too, a subtle undercurrent of acknowledgement in the air.

It’s nice.

It’s even nicer having Phil’s eyes on him.

Phil pats the seat of his desk chair, a quiet invitation for Clint to sit. And so he does, on the edge of the seat. Phil kneels in front of him, looking poised as ever. Calm, cool, collected. It’s the opposite of Clint, whose heart is currently trying to pound itself directly out of his chest.

“You’re a disaster, Clint.” Phil says, though it’s with a smile and the kind of fondness that Clint only ever hears out of Phil either early in the mornings, or late at night. When he’s tired, when he’s less on guard. Clint loves that tone. Loves Phil, really.

God, he’s in deep.

It’s not really a surprise. Just a word for a feeling he’s had for so long now.

Phil wipes a warm washcloth over Clint’s burns. He then pulls out some healing salve and warms it on his fingers before applying it to Clint’s chest. “If you had wanted breakfast, all you had to do was ask.” Warm, again. His voice is so warm. Clint wonders if he’s flushing. He wonders if Phil can feel the way his ribcage shudders with each pounding thud of his heart.

Clint swallows, the sound clicking in his ears. “Wanted to make it for you,” he mumbles into his own hand, eyes closed.

“Hm?” Phil hums.

When Clint opens his eyes and looks down, Phil is looking at him with a puzzled expression. He’s so close. His eyes are so blue. He smells like sage and honey and smoke. They both smell like smoke. “I wanted to make you breakfast.” Clint hears himself say. “Wanted to do something for you.” This is the longest Phil has held his eyes for weeks. Clint thinks that he may have forgotten how to breathe.

Phil’s lips quirk up into a small smile. For Phil, it’s practically a full-faced grin, and every bit as brilliant. Clint’s gut explodes in warmth. He clenches his jaw, trying to keep the pride from inflating his chest, trying to keep himself from smiling dopily back at Phil. He’s the lovesick one, the one who has to keep himself in check.

Except --

Except Phil is reaching up, face still exceedingly fond, fingers making contact and running down Clint’s jaw. He thumbs at the spot behind Clint’s ear. Phil’s hand is warm, _so warm_ , where it practically cups Clint’s jaw. And Clint can’t help but lean into it a little, push back into the touch for _more_ . And then -- Phil’s suddenly close, _so close._ His eyes drop to Clint’s lips -- and there’s no mistaking that. There just isn’t, right? If Clint leaned forward, maybe a little bit. _\--_ And then -- Phil is pulling away, leaning back, an apology already on his lips

Clint’s heart breaks. He can feel the crack of it, a careful faultline, slinking right down the middle of it, threatening to shatter the whole thing. No -- _no_ \-- he can’t let Phil pull away.

His jaw feels so cold now that Phil’s hand is gone.

Before he can stop himself, Clint is reaching out, grabbing fistfulls of Phil’s shirt to haul him forward. To keep him from retreating.

Clint really doesn’t expect to find himself leaning forward, quickly closing the distance between the two of them. He really _really_ doesn’t expect to find his lips on Phil’s in what is perhaps the messiest, most unapologetically desperate kiss he’s ever initiated. Oh boy, and he thought he was awkward in his teen years.

It’s nice though. Phil’s lips are soft and warm, and this close up he smells so dizzyingly perfect. For one single, solitary moment, Clint feels like the whole world is _right_ with itself. Everything just -- aligns.

Well, it’s perfect until he realizes exactly what he’s doing. Which is holding Phil to him, ruining one of his shirts by using it as a desperate hand-hold, and _kissing him_. He is kissing Phil Coulson. Oh gods.

Clint immediately lets go, drops his hands, and pulls back as far as the chair will allow him. It even makes a scooching noise across the wood floor, so loud in the quiet of the room. Phil is staring at him. Clint is staring back.

“Sorry,” he says, voice hoarse. If he thought his heart was pounding before, it’s jackrabbiting in his chest, now. He feels like prey, not like the predator he is. “I’m _so sorry_. I --” He didn’t mean to. He _did_ mean to. He both did and didn’t mean to.

Clint is such a disaster. He can’t believe he just _did_ that.

Coulson is just staring at him, still on his knees, still pitched forward towards Clint. He is the most ruffled Clint has ever seen him -- and still, he looks so put together. Clint feels like he’s falling apart, in comparison. He can feel the pieces slowly making breaks for it, his panic edging to escape his chest at any given moment.

The air crackles with electricity. Clint knows it’s from him, his own uncontrolled and unharnessed magic. He hasn’t felt like this in a while, like he’s ruined _everything_.

Phil is quiet for a moment. Then, he seems to make a decision. “You’re still hurt.” His voice is so steady. It’s easy for Clint to hang onto it, to use it as an anchor. Before Clint can say anything, can argue or even really think, Phil continues taking care of his burns. He puts salve on the ones he hadn’t gotten to, and then he puts some sort of breathable bandage over the worst ones. It’s a nice methodical process. Phil is good with his hands. By the time he is done, Clint is breathing evenly and he can barely even feel his own heartbeat.

Clint wonders if they’re not talking about it. If they’re just going to ignore and forget that one time that Clint kissed his witch. It’s not really like Phil to just shove something under the rug, but maybe this is the exception. But Clint can’t -- he just _can’t_ forget about it. He at least wants to apologize, to be the man he knows he is and hear Phil let him down easy. Because he knows that’s what Phil is going to do. It’ll barely even hurt, Phil is so kind.

“Phil, I -- I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t _thinking_ ,” Clint manages, fingers twisting on the arms of the chair.

Phil -- well, Phil frowns. Clint wasn’t expecting that.

“You didn’t mean to,” Phil asks. Clint knows him well enough to know that it’s a question, even though it’s not phrased as one. His face is pretty unreadable, but he still doesn’t look _mad_. So, Clint counts that for a win.

Clint swallows. Well -- no real point in lying, now. Get it all out in the open. Face the truth like he has some pride left inside himself that he cares about maintaining. “Well, no,” Clint says when he finally finds his voice. “That’s a lie. I totally meant to. I mean, not like _that_. That was messy and pretty terrible, and a surprise for both of us, honestly. It just sort of _happened_. But, I mean, yes, yeah, that’s --” Clint takes a breath. “I have wanted to do that for a very long time.”

He feels -- well, he feels a lot lighter with that off his chest. That may be the panic, though. It’s starting to make him a little dizzy.

He really wishes Phil would _say_ something. The man is always so composed. Clint wishes he would crack a little. In one direction or another.

“Clint,” Phil finally says. Clint braces himself for the inevitable rejection. At best, Phil will just sigh and let him down easy. At worst -- oh gods, at worst, Phil could ask him to _leave_. Clint hadn’t even considered that.

The panic swells again. Phil puts a hand on Clint’s arm, calming and warm, and it fades into the background.

“Clint, may I kiss you?” Phil asks. For a second, the words just sound like static. Then, the weight of them hits with a ferocity he hadn’t expected. It’s enough to leave the room spinning, leaving him feeling completely unmoored. Clint nods dumbly. _Of course._ Of course Phil can kiss him. He couldn’t possibly want anything more.

Phil smiles -- not a faint quirk of his lips or a smirk -- but a full on smile. When he presses his lips to Clint’s, he’s still smiling. Everything slots perfectly into place.

\--

“Why didn’t we do this ages ago?” Clint says into Phil’s neck. They made it about halfway to the bedroom before Clint had gotten impatient, and had pushed Phil up against the wall and caught him in another kiss. It’s too good, he can’t stop.

Phil makes a soft noise when Clint’s lips find a particularly sensitive part of his neck. “Clint,” it’s not quite a moan. Clint clearly has to work harder for that, then. “Clint,” Phil says again -- this time, it’s a warning.

Immediately, Clint backs off, concerned he’s done something wrong. Maybe it’s too much, too fast.

Phil just smiles and cups Clint’s cheek fondly in his hand. Immediately, Clint’s flare of anxiety fizzles out. “We should relocate to the bedroom. I’m not as young as I once was,” Phil says.

“You seem pretty spry,” Clint says. Phil had had zero problem reversing their positions only a moment earlier, pushing Clint against the wall with the same fervor, the same strength that had been used on him.

Clint feels pretty pleased that Phil and he are on the same page: relocating to the bedroom sounds amazing.

It’s strange, pulling Phil down onto the bed with him, folding themselves into the space that they have both shared for so long. First, Clint decides that Phil must lose his shirt. It’s only fair -- Clint doesn’t have one, thanks to his incident in the kitchen. At least now he can barely even feel the burns, even if Phil is being particularly careful of them. Clint’s too distracted to care.

“We should talk about this,” Phil says after Clint manages to wrangle the shirt off him.

“Later,” Clint says, before catching Phil in another kiss. They’ve got forever, pretty much. Right? Clint isn’t going anywhere, unless Phil wants him to. And, with the way Phil is looking at him, Phil doesn’t want him to go very far at all. “Can’t we wait until later?” Clint murmurs against Phil’s lips.

“Clint,” Phil says, pulling back. His lips are pink from kissing and slick with spit. “At least promise me that you in no way feel obligated to do this.”

Everything in Clint screeches to a halt. _Wait, what?_ “Wait, what?”

“I want to make sure that you don’t feel obligated.”

“Why -- would I feel obligated?” Clint can’t even comprehend. “Up until a few minutes ago, I thought you might kick me out if I tried to kiss you.” If he hugged him. Or if he leaned up against Phil too hard, really.

Phil’s eyebrows do something strange. Clint doesn’t think he’s ever seen Phil look so vulnerable, so confused. It’s probably not helped by the fact that the man is half naked, kneeling on a bed only inches away from Clint. Close enough that Clint can feel the heat radiating off of him. “I -- Well, I presumed you could know about my feelings toward you, and that you might feel obligated to stay under those circumstances. Given your position as a familiar.”

 _What?_ Clint could feel insulted that he would use Phil like that. But, honestly, he can’t bring himself to feel that way. He knows that Phil’s heart is in the right place, that he’s way too concerned with politeness and propriety and manners and -- all that stuff that Clint just chooses to ignore most of the time. Phil had -- well, he had clearly been actually concerned about the power dynamics here, and that’s kinda charming. It’s _touching_ in a way that makes Clint’s heart ache.

Clint kisses Phil, long and sweet. He keeps his hands to himself, because right now, at this very moment, all he needs Phil to know is that Clint cares. So much, so deeply.

Phil tastes like home, like warmth and love and magic.

“I promise you I don’t feel obligated,” Clint says when he pulls back from a breathless Phil. It’s a little strange, feeling like he has the upper hand here, when Phil is the one that knocks him sideways and off his feet. “I would never feel obligated.”

Clint reaches out, takes Phil’s hands into his own. Phil’s hands are calloused, yet soft, and his fingers feel perfect entwined with Clint’s. “I want you so badly,” Clint says, because it’s important. Even if he’s terrible with words, Phil deserves to know. “I want everything. I want to be close to you. I want to kiss you. I want to fall asleep next to you. I want to touch you. God, I want to touch you so bad.”

Phil’s expression blooms into a smile. It’s beautiful. “ _Everything_ ,” Phil repeats. “I also want everything with you.” And then, Phil is kissing him, leaning forward and simply taking. The hesitation from before is completely gone, leaving only the confident Phil that Clint knows so well. When Phil pulls back, Clint’s the breathless one, leaning forward to try and keep the contact going.

“And touch,” Phil says. “I’d very much like to touch you, Clint. I know that it is important to you, that I’ve been -- depriving you by keeping my distance.”

Clint makes a strangled noise, cutting Phil off. “Less personal guilt trip, more kissing, please.” And more _other things, too_ if they’re on the table. Oh gods, Clint hopes they are.

That startles a laugh out of Phil, and suddenly Clint finds himself on his back on the bed, Phil hovering over him. “That, I can oblige.” And he _does_. Stars in heaven, does Phil oblige.

The man kisses like he does everything else: exceptionally well and with a controlled fervor Clint finds devastatingly attractive. With Phil’s undivided attention on him, Clint feels dizzy and like he’s about to fall apart. Phil kisses him everywhere, finally stripping Clint of his pants, just to get at all of his skin.

Phil _worships_ him, lavishing care and regard over every inch of skin until Clint feels boneless with want. He wants to return the favor, but his brain can't quite muster up the functionality to try and push Phil off him -- so Clint says as much. In fewer words. Phil just laughs and tells him that they have time, so much time. There's no hurry.

Already, Clint is panting and hard, squirming underneath the nice lines of Phil’s body. Trying to get purchase against something, anything.

“Please,” Clint begs, and then, “more,” because more would be better if he's allowed to totally lose his head.

Phil is clearly taking his time with Clint, but he also obliges. They have both been wanting for so long -- there will be time later for long hours spent exploring each other's bodies. The lust in Phil's eyes tells Clint as much -- it's pretty much the hottest thing he's ever seen.

“You are gorgeous,” Phil tells him, kissing at Clint’s hipbone, finally, _finally_ taking Clint’s length into his hand. Clint groans, loud and embarrassing. Phil only looks more enamored, though. Somehow. “So gorgeous. It was so hard to keep my hands off you. My _eyes_ off you.”

“Oh gods,” Clint replies, because words. “Wanted, wanted you so bad.” No, no, that's not right at all. “Want you now. Please?”

And then Phil’s mouth is on him, warm and wet and slick. And Clint doesn't think he'll ever have another coherent thought ever again, not after this. It's so _good_ , he didn't ever know it could _be_ this good. Clint curses, and the walls rattle. Charms and crystals jingle against each other, each caught in the wave of wild magic Clint let out. Phil stops for a brief moment, appraises the situation, then begins again, undeterred.

Phil nearly swallows him whole, all the way to the hilt. Clint nearly yells -- no, he does yell. His fingers find Phil’s hair and he tugs, pulls, scratches. Phil is so good, so perfect -- Clint has done nothing to deserve him, but he's willing to do anything to keep him. To work off his debt to the universe.

When Phil starts opening Clint up with his fingers, time waxes and wanes and stretches so thin around them both. Phil is using some sort of slick oil, and it smells good, so faint and barely there -- calming and enticing. The smell and the slow methodical movements of Phil's fingers are the only things keeping Clint from whining and squirming in desperate need. Because, gods, he _needs._ He needs Phil’s hands on him, needs Phil inside him. Needs so much _more_ , even though he's being given so much.

Two fingers is a perfect stretch, and then it’s three and the faint burn is so perfect that Clint thinks he might fall apart right here.

“Not yet,” Phil tells him, though, when his hips arch off the bed. And so Clint waits.

Phil works him with those skillful fingers until Clint is open and ready, until his cock is dripping greedily onto his stomach. And then, until Clint is begging profusely, fingers gripping needily at the sheets underneath him.  

When Phil lines himself up and presses inside, it's the single most perfect sensation Clint has ever felt. He feels torn open in the most beautiful way, so full and needed and loved. He curses and wraps his arms around Phil, until every inch of naked skin is flush, close, connected.

And then Phil starts _moving_ and Clint feels himself fall into pieces. Phil’s cock is hot and thick, just the perfect size. It's strange, feeling like he's breaking apart and coming together at the same time -- but it's also unsurprising that Phil can make him feel this way.

It takes a little while to get used to the feeling of Phil stretching him out, filling him like this, but once he does, Clint knows that he’ll never want anything more. It’s his dream come true, being so close to Phil, feeling so in tune with him.

Clint claws at Phil’s back, rocks his hips to get Phil’s cock _deeper,_ because he needs it all. He needs more. Phil laughs, a beautiful choked off noise as he pants into Clint’s neck. He pats Clint’s thigh, raises his eyebrows in question, and then Clint gets it, the subtle order to move. Phil is good with those sorts of unspoken commands. Clint flips them, moving until he’s straddling Phil, on top and more in control.

It had been nice, having the warm weight of Phil pressing him into the bed. It had felt secure, and safe. But now Clint has the freedom to move. And with Phil's hands on his hips, he still has Phil's steadiness coursing through his veins.

The room around them hums. The crystals sing and the air buzzes with wild energy.  It's beautiful and gorgeous and it tickles at Clint’s skin like the warmth of the sun.

Clint grinds down, taking all of Phil's cock deep inside. Clint’s subsequent moan, loud in his own ears, startles him. But not quite as much as Phil’s does. Phil gets a hand on the back of Clint’s neck and drags him down into a heady, messy kiss. And gods, it's so good. Moving, bending, makes Phil’s length press against him in such a perfect way, a way that leaves Clint gasping and begging for more.

And Phil provides. Hands on Clint’s hips, he pounds into him at just the right angle. It's amazing. It's spectacular. It has Clint choking and sputtering and practically crying for more, just _more._ It's so much. It's not _quite_ enough. It is exquisite torture and Clint loves every second of it.

It goes on for so long, until he feels like he cannot take it any longer -- and then Phil’s hand is firm around Clint’s cock, stroking him in rhythm with his thrusts. Clint groans, buries his face in Phil’s neck, and comes. He cannot stop himself, it's too good, too much. The pleasure washes over him as he spills into Phil’s hand, as Phil mumbles praise and adorations in his ear.

Phil finishes not long after, finally coming to completion after pulling Clint into a long, messy kiss. Clint feels Phil come undone underneath him as he’s licking into Phil’s mouth, and it's very nearly the hottest thing he’s ever experienced. Phil moans and pulls Clint close, holding him for long minutes after they've both stopped shaking and panting against each other's bodies.

“Thank you,” Phil says, because only Phil would politely thank someone after a romp around the sheets. Clint loves it, loves him.

“Thank _you,”_ Clint says, because it's never too late to start learning your manners.

* * *

* * *

Clint is trying to kill him, Phil thinks.

At least now Phil is in on the game. And he’s playing, too.

After a quick catnap after their afternoon romp, Phil had cleaned Clint up. He had carefully and gently ran a warm washcloth over Clint’s skin, letting himself map out all of the dips and swells with his fingertips, finally allowing himself to touch. He now had time to admire the gorgeous man spread out in his bed. By the time Phil had been done cleaning Clint off, it was no surprise that Clint was hard and staring up at Phil with the most beautiful, pleading expression.

So, Phil had pressed him down against the bed again, and had taken Clint’s length into his mouth. He had worked Clint over with a gentle tongue, taking his sweet time.

Clint had come apart for him. By the time Phil had been done with him, Clint had been whimpering and begging into the sheets. Finally, Phil had relented, had picked up the pace and the pressure, until Clint spilled into Phil’s mouth, his whole body shaking and trembling.

Phil had swallowed, had wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and had kissed Clint while he was still reeling from the aftershocks.

What a good way to spend the day.

Now, Clint just looks at him lazily, strewn across their sheets, worn out and sluggish in the twilight of the room

“Think you're trying to kill me,” Clint says, pressing kisses to Phil’s shoulders. He stretches out on the bed, showing off that long and lean body for Phil -- and all Phil wants to do is touch him for hours, for days. How has Phil gotten so lucky? Magic, maybe.

“Are you sure you're not trying to kill _me?_ ” It seems much more likely. At least they are on the same page.

Clint hums. The plants chime pleasantly around them. The air smells like sex, like sage, and still a little bit like smoke.

After a moment, Clint shifts, draping himself over Phil’s body. As much contact as he can possibly get. It's perfect. They both needed this for so long. Now, with each other, everything feels in harmony.

“So glad we figured this out.” Clint tells him, a big and satisfied grin on his face. “Let's never be disasters again.”

“Agreed,” Phil says.

\--

The next morning, Clint manages to set toast on fire. At least this time, Phil is right there behind him, ready to usher the fire away.

Some things never change, and Phil is just fine with that.

 

**Author's Note:**

> well, this was a project i started in 2014. so, that's a thing.
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com), if you are so inclined.


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